Chapter 19

I’ve always been shy. Not some saint like everyone thinks — far from it. But shy. The kind that blushes easy, that doesn’t know where to put her hands. And there I was, standing in front of him, heart pounding hard in my chest, while he sat there watching me, slowly undoing the buttons on his dress shirt. The smile on his face was pure anticipation, like he was waiting for a show, a private performance — something I honestly wasn’t sure I could pull off.

“You want like… a striptease? Something sexy?” I asked, trying to figure out the role he expected me to play.

He laughed. A short, easy laugh.

“I don’t think you can do it,” he said without any meanness, just disarming honesty. “It doesn’t suit you. I just want to see you.”

That, in some weird way, gave me strength. Because it was true. I wouldn’t know how to sensualize like a porn star would. But I could be me. Just that.

I let the strap of the dress slip off with trembling fingers. My face was probably redder than a ripe tomato by then. I took the chance to fix my hair, pulling back some strands that had escaped. Then I lifted the dress to reach the zipper in the back, and with some effort, I undid it. The soft sound of the zipper going down gave me a shiver. I wiggled a bit, trying to make the dress slide down my legs — and it pooled at my feet in a whisper of fabric, leaving my body in just lingerie.

The move wasn’t sexy. It was kinda clumsy. But I tried to smile, pretend I was in control.

When I looked at him, waiting for some reaction, I got total silence. He wasn’t blinking. His gaze frozen, like he was soaking in every detail, every curve. It was the kind of attention that gets to you. The kind any woman would want. But from someone who barely knew me… it gave me a shiver mixing arousal with discomfort.

And I stood there, trying to pretend I wasn’t completely exposed inside too.

“Keep going,” he ordered, already standing, shrugging off his shirt as he walked back to the bed behind him.

My eyes followed his body like they were glued. I was waiting for the attention to come back to me, the focus, the gaze. But he sat on the edge of the bed casually, and started getting rid of his pants, shoes, socks.

“Don’t stop. I told you to keep going, didn’t I?” The tone came a bit firmer. Still no aggression, but less sweet. It caught me off guard.

I laughed, a nervous reflex.

I adjusted the bra straps on my shoulders, like I always do — it was automatic. My little habit. I pulled the cup down, adjusting it in place, just to reach the clasp in the back without turning around, like most people do. It was a simple bra, with thin straps and narrow elastic, kinda teenage style, almost no padding. I knew it wasn’t sexy in the traditional sense, but it looked good on my body. Firm without being tight. Soft. It was what made me comfortable.

And comfort was everything to me.

What set me apart from my sister started right there. Jules hated my taste for cotton clothes. She said panties have to hug, have to lift the ass, accentuate the butt. I thought panties should let you forget you’re wearing them. Mine were like that, basic, soft cotton, with a little animal print — some spaced-out kittens on the light fabric. Maybe too cute for the occasion, but it was my favorite. The only one I picked without thinking.

Bras, we even shared sometimes. But she was always hiking the straps up in the adjustments, wanting the tits pushed together and high. Said they looked better that way. I hated it. It made me feel smothered. She went for the aesthetics; I went for the ease.

I unhooked the clasp and felt the instant relief, that sigh of skin when the elastic releases and the body can relax. My breasts settled naturally, free. I didn’t cover, didn’t hide. I let it be. The shame was still there, of course — like always. But it wasn’t stronger than me anymore.

And then, slowly, I let the bra slide down my arms until it fell completely. I stood there, still, in just my kitten panties — the ones with a little tear in the elastic, right at the hip, almost unnoticeable. You’d have to look close, and he was looking close. The bedside lamp cast dark shadows on the wall, and the room felt even more luxurious in that silence.

He kept undressing with the same calm as before. He took off his shoes and socks carefully, like it was a ritual. He set them neatly in the corner by the bed. The shirt and pants, he hung with almost eerie precision on the wall hook nearby, like he was visiting someone’s home or prepping clothes to iron. The scene, so disciplined, gave me a slight embarrassment. I glanced at my dress, dumped on the floor like I’d ripped it off without a thought. I felt sloppy. I know it’s ridiculous to think that in the middle of sex, but I did. I bent down discreetly, picked up the dress, and hung it next to his clothes. It was a small gesture, but it gave me a silly sense of balance. Of matching him, maybe.

When I looked back at him, he was taking off the last piece — his boxers. He did it with care, folding them like fine sheets, and set them on the nightstand, claiming the center spot on the bed like a side character.

And there he was. Naked.

He sat on the mattress, adjusted his body, and then did that thing every guy does when he’s exposed: tugged his cock up, then down, stretched it with a light tension in his fingers, like testing the give. An almost automatic move. But it had a weird effect on me — not instant arousal, but a kind of flustered fascination. It was nice. Thick, yeah. The skin taut with that semi-hard lightness. The head was small, proportional maybe, but seemed shy compared to the rest. And it had an upward curve that made it look more alive, more ready. A body waiting for a response.

My eyes locked there, still.

That’s when he noticed. And his face broke into a restrained smile — not mocking, but pleased. The kind that knows he’s being seen, desired, admired.

There, seeing him lying on the bed, naked, settling in with that comfortable, self-assured way, it hit me odd. I remembered I was the hooker in this equation. He’d paid me. And that, somehow, demanded surrender. A performance, maybe. A role I’d accepted myself, even without knowing how to play it right.

It’s weird, because yeah — I’d had sex before, sure. But this was different. It wasn’t just giving. It was acting. Being a desirable woman, professional, someone who knows exactly what to do. And me… I didn’t know. I lacked the script. I lacked the guts.

So, half without thinking, I drew on memories from the live streams. Those bits where we’d flirt, play with our bodies. I decided, bold as brass, to commit to the ridiculous live.

I smiled awkwardly. That smile you give when you’re not sure if you’re being sexy or pathetic. I brought my hands slowly to my breasts — small, round, too sensitive. I caressed them lightly with my fingertips, kinda awkward, squeezing softly like trying to wake something in me that hadn’t stirred yet. I ran my thumbs over my nipples, one at a time, feeling the shiver rise from the skin and spread.

I slid my hands down my own body slowly, brushing lightly over my belly, circling my navel, touching my curves like they were new to me. It was like staging desire. Like tracing with my fingers what I thought he wanted to see.

And he wanted to see.

He was sitting, half-reclined against the headboard, with that pleased little smile of someone watching something exclusive. His hand was already on his cock, stroking slowly, in a relaxed rhythm, almost contemplative, like my body was a calm landscape. His breathing was steady, eyes locked on me — taking me in whole, devouring me with his gaze.

And even with all the insecurity, even with the fear of bombing it, I kept going.